


Telltale

by methylviolet10b



Series: Emergency Contact Number [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-29
Updated: 2012-01-29
Packaged: 2017-10-30 07:06:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/329090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/methylviolet10b/pseuds/methylviolet10b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some clues are obvious. Others, much less so.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Telltale

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a continuation of the earlier stories in the series. If you haven't read those, you might not want to read this one. And like all stories in this series, this too is a promptfill fic, for the following prompt: "Ears. (I have no idea why.)"

Lestrade was used to seeing Sherlock well-dressed and groomed. It hadn’t always been so. He had no trouble remembering what Sherlock had looked like in the worst of his junkie days: gaunt, bizarrely dressed in a combination of once-posh clothes and dustbin castoffs, too-long hair flopping limply into his eyes no matter how many times Sherlock impatiently brushed it back.  
  
The man in front of him now didn’t look quite as awful as that half-starved, strung-out wreck, but he certainly was a far cry from what Lestrade had come to consider as normal. He was expensively dressed, but the stylish clothes looked limp and wrinkled, like he’d been living in them for several days running. Which was probably the truth. Lestrade couldn’t _swear_ that Sherlock had been camped out at the hospital all this time – he himself had gone home to sleep and change clothes, and he’d had to go into the Yard long enough to straighten out some case file issues, despite being on temporary emergency leave – but even if he hadn’t known the man, from the state of Sherlock’s straggly, greasy hair and rumpled appearance, Lestrade was willing to bet his next pay cheque that Sherlock hadn’t budged once from the premises.  
  
It had been understandable in those first critical hours, initially waiting for John to get out of surgery, and then waiting – hoping – for him to wake up. But not only had John awakened, he’d shown remarkable improvement in the days since the accident. The worst-case possible complications surrounding John’s massive blood loss and various injuries hadn’t materialized. Before the end of the first day, the doctors had moved him out of critical care and into a private room, still closely monitored, but a clear sign showing just how much he’d improved. John still had a long recovery ahead of him, but barring unforeseen problems, he _would_ recover.  
  
All this was extremely good news. _None_ of it seemed enough to convince Sherlock to actually relax his vigilance for a minute, much less leave the hospital.  
  
“No, Mycroft,” Sherlock snapped. He shook his head for emphasis, and then brusquely shoved a few strands of hair back behind his ears. “I will not leave John unsupervised. The cretins here didn’t even notice when he woke up. They only took note when I went into his room to reassure him.”  
  
And God, what a scene that had been. John, barely conscious, instinctively fighting his respirator; Sherlock shouting to bring the ceiling down, alternately trying to reach John and viciously dressing down the critical care nurse who’d failed to notice the change in John’s breathing and heart rate; alarmed staff and doctors and security guards appearing from every which direction. He’d had to show his warrant card just to keep them all from being thrown out of the building, and even then, Lestrade suspected Anthea had done some fancy talking to keep things from completely blowing up between them and the staff. That one nurse still avoided Sherlock at all costs, keeping a wary eye on him anytime she couldn’t avoid being in the same room (or on the same floor) as if she thought he might attack her.  
  
Well, Sherlock was dangerous enough, but wasn’t all that likely to assault anyone. As long as they kept clear of him, that is. And John, too. Which meant there were constant episodes of interaction – and friction – as Sherlock remained a fixture in John’s room. There hadn’t been another major incident – yet – but the longer Sherlock stayed encamped, exhausted and stressed, the more likely there would be one.  
  
Apparently Mycroft agreed with Lestrade’s assessment. He’d appeared at random intervals during Lestrade’s time visiting in hospital, sometimes staying for just minutes, sometimes for hours, but never saying much to Sherlock. That had changed with this most recent drop-in. “John is in much more stable condition now, Sherlock.”  
  
“Maybe. But I’m the one who noticed his temperature going up yesterday – ”  
  
“That would have been noted in the next check, which was less than ten minutes away – ”  
  
“And I don’t have any cases on right now anyway, so I might as well be here helping John – ”  
  
“You’re exhausted, Sherlock.”  
  
“I’m fine.”  
  
Mycroft’s eyes narrowed slightly as he focused on some part of Sherlock’s face. “You’re lying, and you know it.”  
  
“I am not!”  
  
“You are. I can see it. And if you’re tired enough to let me see – ”  
  
To Lestrade’s utter astonishment, Sherlock clapped both his hands over his ears, as if he were five years old and refusing to listen. He half expected Sherlock to start chanting “la-la-la” to drown out his brother.  
  
Mycroft continued on as if he hadn’t even noticed Sherlock’s bizarre display. “ – you’re tired enough to start making other mistakes. Even mistakes about John.”  
  
Sherlock’s hands dropped and balled into fists. “I would never,” he hissed.  
  
“Not deliberately,” Mycroft agreed. “But in your current condition – ”  
  
For an instant, Lestrade thought he might have to step between the two brothers, in order to keep Sherlock from throwing a punch at his older sibling. Then another voice – weak, raspy, but nonetheless clear – broke in.  
  
“Um, excuse me…”  
  
“John!” Sherlock spun around and crouched next to John’s bed, everything else apparently forgotten. “You’re awake. You’re supposed to be resting, but since you’re not – _thanks no doubt to certain people poking in where they’re not wanted_ – you need to tell me how you’re feeling. Any new pain? Are you thirsty?”  
  
Something that might have been a smile flitted across John’s terribly battered features. “I’m doing okay. You, though…”  
  
“I’m fine.” The same words he’d spoken moments ago to his brother, but worlds apart in tone and delivery.  
  
“You don’t look it.” John swallowed and shifted slightly, clearly in pain no matter how he tried to hide it. “You look like you need about eight hours of sleep and a thousand-plus calories before you’ll reach ‘fine.’”  
  
Sherlock half-ducked his head. “Nonsense,” he muttered. He said something else, but Lestrade’s attention was caught by the way Mycroft appeared to be focusing intently at something on the back of Sherlock’s head. What was he staring at? Lestrade followed the conversation between John and Sherlock with half an ear, while trying to figure out what had so transfixed Mycroft.  
  
“I need you to do something for me.”  
  
“Of course, whatever you need. Do you need a nurse? I can call one, but I have to tell you, John, the quality of care in this facility is far below what I would consider…”  
  
“Sherlock.” John’s voice cut off Sherlock’s criticism mid-sentence. “I need you to be okay.”  
  
A pause, and Mycroft let out a silent huff of air, his eyes glued to… Was he really watching Sherlock’s _ears_?  
  
And God, were Sherlock’s ears really turning _pink_ on top?  
  
“I told you, John, I’m - ”  
  
“Please.” John’s trauma-roughened voice cracked slightly; with fatigue, pain, or something else, Lestrade couldn’t say and wouldn’t speculate. “Do you trust me?”  
  
Sherlock’s ears turned pinker, the whole of the ear flushing with colour, not just the tops. “Yes. Absolutely. You know that.”  
  
“Then go home, shower, change clothes, and come back with a curry.”  
  
“You can’t have curry yet – ”  
  
“No, but I’ll enjoy watching you eat it. I promise.” There was something about the way John said those last two words – and the way Sherlock froze – that made Lestrade think he was promising more than just second-hand satisfaction at watching Sherlock eat.  
  
Sherlock’s ears faded back to just a pale rose shade at the tips, and out of the corner of his eye, Lestrade saw Mycroft nod ever so slightly. “You’re sure?”  
  
“I said I would, and I will.” John’s eyes flickered to Lestrade. “If you’re in a hurry, Lestrade can probably give you a ride. Quicker than catching a cab both ways.”  
  
How did John know Lestrade had his car with him today? That was almost as unsettling – as astounding – as discovering that _Sherlock Holmes_ had a tell. Not one he could read, not like his brother obviously could, but he could see it now that he knew about it. All at once, Lestrade understood why even in his most strung-out, drug-obsessed depths, Sherlock had always been careful to wear his hair long enough to cover his ears, particularly the tops.  
  
“Go on,” John urged gently, as Sherlock’s telltale ear tips faded all the way back to their usual ivory. “I’ll be here waiting when you get back. I’m not going anywhere.”  
  
“I will keep him company,” Mycroft interjected smoothly.  
  
Sherlock jerked around to stare at his brother, but Mycroft looked perfectly serious. “I will, Sherlock.”  
  
All at once, Sherlock sighed dramatically and scrubbed his hands through his hair – which also had the effect of untucking the lank strands and hiding most of his ears from sight. “Very well, John, since you asked. I suppose I can return to the flat long enough to tidy up. Mrs. Hudson undoubtedly would appreciate receiving an update, anyway.”  
  
John smiled. “Give her my best. And let her make you some tea, if she wants to.”  
  
“That’s two favours, John, not one.” Sherlock’s face creased in what was almost his usual quicksilver grin. “Don’t push your luck.”

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted October 17, 2011


End file.
